Chapter 15
Graham
“Come on, B,” I said, coaxing my sweet girl from her bed. “You can do it.”
For the past four days it had taken a monumental effort to get her up and out of the house for our morning walks.
Part of me thought maybe I was being cruel.
Maybe she just didn’t want to. Maybe she couldn’t.
But once she was up, she’d give that two-thump wag against my leg and look up at me with those big brown eyes, a spark of the younger gal I’d known still inside.
It had been hard being patient. By leaving later, I knew we were missing our opportunity to cross paths with Lior, whom I assumed was back in town because her social media page hadn’t been updated with new photos of her and her friend Addie in days.
Either that or she was on a job somewhere.
I imagined her on a beach in Ibiza. Maybe Costa Rica… in that red thong.
“Seriously, dude,” I said to myself. “Knock it off.”
But since our shared cab ride the previous week, I couldn’t stop picturing her wet hair, water streaming from the dark strands down her arms and collar bones. Her black satin tank pressed against her breasts, leaving little to the imagination.
“Fuck,” I whispered, running a hand through my hair and staring down at Bronte who was now looking up at me with concern. “Sorry girl. My brain is having untoward thoughts. Let’s go.”
It was an hour later than we usually left, and as had happened the past few days, I was tempted to walk by Lior’s house.
But it felt a little stalker-ish, and so instead we loped along at a leisurely pace and stopped at Mornin’ Joe’s for a visit with the man himself, a cappuccino and cardamom bun for me, and homemade doggie treats for B.
“How are my two favorite customers today?” Joe asked, pulling out the metal bistro chair across from me and taking a seat.
“It’s taking us a while to get going this morning,” I said.
He reached down to pet Bronte. “Nothing wrong with that, right girl?”
She gave a thwack of her tail and closed her eyes.
Joe smiled, gave her a last pat, and turned to me. “How’s the book? Making it shine?”
I grinned. He forgot nothing of our previous conversations.
“Not yet,” I said. “Still have to finish it. Then I’ll at least try to make it sound not quite so rudimentary, so my editor won’t think I’m completely daft.”
“I’ll never believe you don’t write anything but glorious first drafts, my friend.”
“You are very generous, Joe.”
“You tip well.”
I laughed.
“Want a hot tip for your next article?” he asked.
“Always.”
He pointed. “A couple blocks down that way, take a right, and a few houses down there’s a gorgeous hollowed-out tree trunk the owner had made into a free little library. I even glimpsed one of your books in there.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “Only one?”
“Shameful, I know. But maybe they treasure the others.”
“Well now I need to know which one they didn’t like enough to keep.”
Joe laughed. “And there’s your story. The One They Didn’t Keep.”
Bronte and I made sure to pass by the woodland creation on our way home.
It was a perfect way to make use of the old tree, and felt very storybook-like with its strand of tiny fairy lights and small selection of books tucked within.
I noted with a grin that my book was no longer there, took a few pictures with my phone, memorized the location, and decided the free little libraries in the area definitely needed to be recognized.
I couldn’t wait to hear how I was going to owe Joe for this particular tip.
An hour later I was at my laptop, deep into a new chapter. When the timer went off, I saved my file, shut the laptop, gave Bronte a treat, refilled her water bowl, and took the stairs two at a time, hurrying upstairs for a quick workout followed by a shower.
Having hit my word count for the day, I spent the rest of the afternoon doing chores, paying bills, and perusing the internet for homes for sale in the area, as well as homes for sale in Seattle where Marley would be attending college. I then checked to see if Lior had posted anything new.
“Where is she?” I whined aloud. Bronte’s ears perked and she glanced up at me. “Do you know?” I leaned down and petted her head, staring into her age-fogged eyes.
If she did know, she wasn’t saying.
Bored, I opened my work in progress again, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was distracted, thoughts of Lior and that damn slinky black tank from our moment in the rain filling my mind again. The way the raindrops clung to her eyelashes and lips. I felt myself going hard and exhaled.
“Well, at least I know I’m not completely dead inside,” I muttered and pushed back from the table.
Nothing could wilt a promising erection like walking through the stark, cold home you’d shared with your now ex-wife. So that’s what I did for the next half hour.
I meandered from room to room, staring at the empty walls, angular, uncomfortable furniture, and the mostly empty side of her closet – save for a box of stuff she’d left behind and had never come back for.
I lifted off the lid now and reeled at the image that greeted me.
I’d forgotten I’d thrown a framed wedding photo of us inside.
I picked it up and looked at what was beneath it.
Trinkets that had sat on top of her dresser, makeup, a hairbrush, a pair of slippers, and some other odds and ends.
“Screw it,” I said, heaving the box into my arms. “To the trash you go.”
I had just dropped these last remnants of my marriage into the outside bin when my phone began to ring.
Francesca, my agent. My spirits lifted. She only ever called if it was good news.
“Hey, Fran. What’s up?” I said, walking back into the house feeling a little bit lighter.
“You have dinner plans this evening?” she asked.
“Just hanging with Bronte. Might crack open a can of chili.”
“That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And it’s a lie. I only have cans of tuna and dog food.”
She made a sound like she was vomiting.
“Think Bronte can manage without you for a few hours?” she asked when she was done heaving. “I’ve had an interesting call and want to discuss it with you.”
“That’s it?” I asked, laughing. “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”
“You know I like to be mysterious.”
“I do. Fine. Yeah, I’m free,” I said. “Where and what time?”
“Nobu? Seven o-clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
I was, in fact, three minutes early. Francesca though, was known for arriving at least fifteen minutes early for anything, so I found her at a table by the window, doing something on her phone while sipping a cocktail, a plate of edamame in front of her.
“Hey!” she said, her face brightening as I approached the table. She set her phone down and looked guiltily at her drink and food. “Sorry. Was in meetings all day and missed lunch. Couldn’t wait.”
“You always miss lunch,” I said, kissing her cheek before taking a seat and stealing a piece of her appetizer. “And I don’t mind.”
“How’s the book coming along?”
“Nearly done.”
“And?”
I grinned. “I’m loving it.”
“That means it’s going to be a bestseller.”
“You always say that.”
“Have I ever been wrong?” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and I laughed.
There was something about Francesca that had intrigued me from our first meeting at a writer’s conference over a decade ago.
She had an air of mystery about her. A hint of the diabolical.
And a fashion style not many could pull off.
Case in point, she was wearing a bright red blouse with the largest collar I’d ever seen, but on her it somehow looked natural.
Maybe it was because the rest of her was dramatic as well, from her raven black hair pulled back into a high ponytail, wide blue eyes behind cat-eye, purple-framed glasses, and full lips that were always painted so dark I often wondered if she was actually a vampire.
“So?” I said, smiling and resting my elbows on the table. “What was this interesting call you had?”
“Hang on,” she said and signaled to the waiter. “What are you having?” She pointed to her cocktail.
“I’ll have the amber ale,” I told the waiter, who nodded and hurried away. I turned back to Fran who was now grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Uh oh.”
“No uh-oh,” she said. “This is… unprecedented.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Except, maybe not.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest, peering at her… waiting.
“What do you think about doing a photo shoot for Vogue,” she said.
The noise in the restaurant turned into white noise as I processed what I thought I’d just heard her say.
“I’m sorry?”
“Risa Collins, the creative director at Vogue, called me and asked what you might say to being part of a campaign.”
“For Vogue?”
“Yes.”
“Magazine?”
“Yes.”
“I… what?”
She laughed and leaned forward, popping a piece of edamame in her mouth and then offering the plate to me, but I shook my head, still trying to work out what was happening.
“They’re featuring a new designer,” she said. “And apparently the clothing has a fairytale-like quality to it. They thought it would be a cool idea to do a literary themed shoot and, instead of using one of their usual models, they’d bring in an actual author. Specifically you.”
“Why me?”
She cleared her throat and gave me a look.
“I’m sorry Graham, but have you seen you? You’re not exactly hard to look at.”
I felt my face warm and shrugged. I had never been comfortable with compliments unless it was about my work.
“You’re adorable,” she said, grinning even wider than before now.
“They also want you to write a piece for the magazine. Subject matter to be discussed.” Her phone buzzed with a text message and she shot me an apologetic smile as she picked it up, her eyes scanning quickly, and then began texting back.